Cue For Murder полностью

Wanda went indoors with them. Basil’s glance swept the long, pale room with its velvet carpet and curtains in faint shades of gray, lime and lemon. It was silken and cushioned, as a case for jewels or wedding silver. There was a hint of the boudoir about the chaise longue of tufted, oyster-white satin with its heap of pillows in fresh laundered slips of fine lawn and lace, its fleecy coverlet of pale green wool neatly folded at one end. Surely this was not the room of a woman who scorned pleasure and ease for the sake of a robust simplicity? Basil’s glance came to rest on an elaborate birdcage that hung from a stand in the sunshine by a window. Cage and stand were wood, painted gray and carved with little flying birds in low relief picked out in bright colors. Inside on the central perch two small green birds, something like parrots, sat side by side, beaks touching in a parody of a human kiss.

As he drew near the cage the birds did not flutter or even turn their heads. With a little shock, he realized that they were dead birds, stuffed and mounted by a taxidermist.

“Love birds?” queried Basil.

“They were pets of mine when they were alive, and after they died I had them preserved like this.”

Basil had once known a woman who did the same thing when a favorite horse died, but the idea did not appeal to him.

“That parrot green is a little crude for the rest of the room.” His gaze went to the lemon yellow hangings. “Why not . . . canaries?”

Wanda lifted both hands, crossed them against her throat as if something were choking her. “Because I hate canaries!” Her voice quavered out of control. “That bilious yellow. Those ugly, raw, peeled-looking pink legs—ugh!”

The two men stepped through the doorway from the sunlit room overlooking the river into a dim, windowless hall. As they turned the sharp curve in the narrow stair, they looked back and saw Wanda standing in the doorway watching them, one hand braced against the lintel, the other still clasping her throat. The tall, slim figure outlined darkly against the light of the room beyond might have been a girl of nineteen or twenty. In contour Wanda was still a young woman; only the texture of her skin and the expression of her face betrayed her real age. The dimness of the hallway veiled her face now, and her pose was arresting and eloquent.

Leonard turned his head. Basil rather expected some expression of sympathy for Wanda. But Leonard said: “What a wonderful gesture that was—when she clasped both hands across her throat. I must remember that. It would be most effective on the stage. If ever I have a part that calls the same emotion into play, I shall use it.”

“And just what is that emotion?” asked Basil.

The question seemed to surprise Leonard. “Why, fear—of course!”

II

They were in the lower hall now. Daylight streamed through a lunette fanlight thinly veiled in white muslin. The mulatto produced their hats and opened the door for them.

“A charming house,” mused Leonard as they went down the steps. “It always reminds me of Becky Sharpe’s little slice of house in Mayfair. You remember the cramped little stairway, and how all the great personages of the day crowded into it? To me there is always something fascinating about a little house—particularly when it’s a town house, luxurious and complete to the last detail, but all on the smallest possible scale. And there must be a pretty woman nestling inside like a jewel in a plush-lined box.”

“Doubtless it is charming,” agreed Basil. “But not precisely the home of a beer and hamburger mentality.”

Leonard’s sudden, harsh laughter sounded loud in Beekman Place, quiet and shady as a courtyard with the two big apartment buildings and the double row of small houses enclosing it almost entirely on four sides. “You mustn’t let Wanda’s inverted boasting confuse you!”

“Inverted boasting?”